


Detox

by valentangelo



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't Try This At Home, Emetophobia, Force-Feeding, Gen, M/M, Mullet Grunkle Stan, Original Character Death(s), Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Seizures, Swearing, it's not as intense as the tags make it sound but it is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8329603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valentangelo/pseuds/valentangelo
Summary: When Ford gets a call from an old friend, he hops off to intergalactic prison without a word of explanation to his brother. Just as the kids are arriving for the summer, Stan suddenly has to contend with the loudmouthed Rick, whose less-than-charming personality is soon overshadowed by the trauma of severe alcohol withdrawal. With no hospital in Gravity Falls, and Rick on the run from the Galactic Federation, it's up to Stan to nurse him painfully back to health. The two men resent each other at first, but eventually the close quarters and sleepless nights offer them each an opportunity for some closure.





	

A mass of clatters and bangs echoed up from the basement. Stan fumbled for his bedside clock and glared blearily at the glowing red numbers. “What the hell?” he muttered to himself. He staggered downstairs. The vending machine hung askew from the store wall. With a growl he pulled it shut behind him as he descended the stairs to the lab. Stanford was crashing around like a bull in a china shop, wearing the black clothes he’d had on when he first emerged from the portal, snatching up books and gadgets helter-skelter. “What the hell are you doing?” Stan bellowed, and Ford, who had been sifting through a stack of papers, turned to face him. “It’s three in the goddamned morning!”

“That’s right! Thank you for reminding me!” Ford adjusted his glasses and bent over his watch, fiddling with the dial. Stan drew himself up to his full height, a furious spectre in boxers and a moth-eaten robe. “Ford…” he growled, and his brother looked up from his watch.

“Ah! Good heavens. You were sleeping, weren’t you. I’m sorry,” he went on as he bent over his watch again. Where was the damn interdimensional toggle? He hadn’t spent so much money on a travel timepiece just to be bested by its technological complexity - ah! There. “It’s just that I’ve received a call…” he clicked the dial on his watch into place and looked up grimly...“from an old friend.”

Ford’s old friend was, at that moment, hanging slack in his restraints and brooding. Of course it had to be Ford. Asshole would take any chance to make himself out like a goddamn hero. But he could get you out of a spot, shit, he really could. And then you’d never hear the goddamn end of it. He grimaced. Bastard better get here fast because Rick wasn’t gonna put up with this shithole for long. No way. If Ford didn’t get here soon he’d come up with something else and if it meant Ford arrived just to clean up Rick’s mess he didn’t care. He eyed the bigass ooze monster in the tiny, exposed cell block next to him. He’d get friendly with that guy and if it could break his restraints, Rick could take out the guard and run like hell to the portal room and then he was puking his guts out in the dark.

“Are you doing all right?” Ford’s voice sounded just like it had a couple years ago. Boy, did that bring back memories.

“What the fuck was that!” Rick spat, his mouth full of bile.

“It’s a nifty little gadget I ran across in Sector 9. Creates a stable time loop around the user, somewhere in the neighborhood of 3 seconds. As a result I didn’t have much time to get you through the portal and turn it off before you looped right back to your cell block.” He chuckled merrily.

“Jesus,” Rick panted, but after that he couldn’t think of anything to say. He grasped at fragments of memory. Falling backward through a portal. No: first, Ford had hurled himself at him. Ford shouting, then throwing himself at Rick, the mind-stretching feeling of hyperspace travel, Ford leaping off him just in time for Rick’s whole digestive system to turn itself inside out. Portal travel did that when you weren’t ready for it. Then he froze. “Where are we?”

“A cozy little cave system in Sector 7. Not a living soul knows about it.”

“Why the hell did you bring me here? Is this where you live now, Ford? How the mighty have fucking fallen, huh?” Before he could really get on a roll, Ford cut him off.

“As a matter of fact, my living situation right now is stable. Do you need a hand?” Rick groped in front of him until he found Ford’s hand, and Ford pulled him to his feet. “Anyway,” Ford said patiently, “I thought if you needed anything we may as well make a plan to get ahold of it while we’re here. My brother isn’t exactly fond of disturbances, and he may not let you leave once we land in his basement.”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Rick flapped his hands as he talked, though he knew Ford couldn’t see them in the pitch black of the cave. “You gotta brother?”

***

Stanley peered ungraciously at his alarm clock with one bloodshot eye. He buried his face in his pillow, dropped the full weight of his arm unceremoniously onto the snooze button, and let out a long-suffering sigh. Okay, Stan, he said to himself, today’s the day. Of course Stanford had to wake him at that ungodly hour the night before he had to get up early to meet the kids at the bus station. He grimaced and heaved himself out of bed and into his slippers. First: coffee. While the coffeepot sputtered in the background, he shuffled out for the paper, dumped it on the table, poured cereal. The smell of coffee blossoming in the kitchen did a lot for his mood. He was excited to see the kids. A whole year! Not that he hadn’t been busy...he grimaced as he poured his coffee, thinking of his trip with Ford. What a fucking catastrophe.

The second they hauled Ford’s precious specimen aboard, Stan became baggage again. Ford just puttered around the thing, murmuring to himself. It was like he was in love with it. He talked and talked about jet propulsion and venom sacs, and it didn’t matter if Stan was even around to hear it. Oh, but he had to help haul the slimy thing downstairs. Whatta greeting for Soos, too, Ford barging up to the door with a garbage bag full of tentacles and expecting to waltz right back into the Shack. Stan snorted. If anyone had a right to do that, it’d be him, and had he? No! Sure, Soos and Melody were just house-sitting, but for almost a year! And with Soos running the shop, the Mystery Shack was partly his anyway as far as Stan was concerned. And the kid had earned it! But it was just like Ford to come back to a place he’d abandoned thirty years ago and expect to find it just waiting for him. He shook his head and gulped the rest of his coffee. He hoped he could keep Ford under control around the kids, was all, he thought as he trundled down the dusty road. Dipper especially looked up to him, but what was gonna happen if Ford kept treating the world like his personal experiment? Somebody could get hurt. He sighed as he pulled up to the bus stop and got slowly out of the car. It was the little things, he thought to himself. The keys jingling, the smell of heat and dust. He leaned on the hood and tried to let it go.

He wondered if Mabel was bringing Waddles with her.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel hurled herself at him from the bus steps and he enveloped her in a bear hug.

“Mabel! Look at you, you’re gettin’ so tall!” He ruffled her hair. He was sure she'd been a head shorter a year ago. Dipper hovered just behind her, blue hat over his messy hair, grinning.

“Dipper!” Stan wrapped his arms around him.

“Hi, Grunkle Stan!”

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel exclaimed. “You have to say hi to Waddles!” The pig sported a shiny new collar. He gave an excited grunt and butted his snout into Stan’s leg as he scratched behind his ears.

“Boy, isn’t he getting big?” Stan exclaimed. Mabel beamed; Dipper pursed his lips and sent a puff of air at his disobedient bangs.

“Will Grunkle Ford be waiting for us?” asked Mabel as they drove back towards the shack.

“Uh…” Stan hesitated. He hadn’t seen Ford since last night. But before he could come up with a story, Dipper blurted, “I’m sure he’s working on a huuuuge experiment right now, right, Grunkle Stan?” His eyes were wide with excitement.

“Uh...yeah. But he’ll be excited to see you two kids, you just wait!” Stan pasted a smile onto his face. Maybe, just maybe, Ford would at least give the kids a day to settle in before he came crashing back from god-knew-where. Just a day, Ford, he thought. That’s all I ask.

***

“What the hell?” Rick kicked at the shelf in the garage that used to hold all his stuff. “They moved all my shit! I’m gone for a week and Jerry has to take over his precious fucking garage again. Well, you know what, I don’t have to put up with this kinda...kinda…” he gesticulated. “...Ingratitude. I’m just gonna go up to Jerry, and I’m gonna tell him, I’m gonna tell him that he can just…”

Stanford cut in hurriedly. “Richard, isn’t there something specific you wanted?”

“Yes! Yeah! Shit, yeah, I gotta get Morty or they’ll...the cops’ll...Ford, you got no idea how bad they want me. If I don’t get Morty, I mean, they’ll just...grab me...and you’ll be toast, Ford, I mean, you’ll be in a world of trouble for getting me outta prison, and we’ll just...we’ll be fucking toast, Ford, you got no idea.”

He leaned into Stanford with wide eyes as he spoke, and Ford began to remember why they had first parted ways. He leaned away involuntarily. “Ah...Richard...where do you think Morty might be?”

Rick blinked, whirled around and sprinted for the door that led from the garage into the house. Stanford allowed himself a moment to adjust his glasses before following him.

Morty, it seemed, was not precisely overjoyed to see his grandfather, insofar as Stanford could glean from the fact that at the sight of Richard, he let out a yelp, stumbled backward, and landed sitting on his bed.

“Augh! Jeez, Grandpa Rick, what do you think you’re doing here?”

Rick strode forward and covered his mouth. “Sshhh! Listen to me, Morty, you gotta keep quiet, okay? We gotta leave right away, we’re gonna go with my friend here, we’re gonna go somewhere we can hide out and figure out what to do, okay, Morty? ‘Cause the feds, they’re still on my ass, Morty, and we gotta lay low, we’re gonna be fugitives, okay, Morty? We’re gonna lay low and make some plans and then boom!” Morty and Stanford jumped in unison. “We’re gonna take down these...fuck...these fucking fed goons, okay? And everything will be back to normal, okay?” He had taken his hand off Morty’s mouth by now.

“Oh, jeez…” the kid said, back stiff and staring at the floor. “I don’t…”

“Come on, Morty! I thought you were on my side, Morty! I thought you said you should love your family unconditionally! Didn’t you say that, Morty? Didn’t you say we should stick together? Cause you and me, Morty, we could do some great things, great things, you get that, Morty?”

Morty bent his head and dug the heels of his hands into his eyelids.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll come along, but if this is another weapons deal, or, or, or another... girlfriend... who’s a planet...I’m gonna, I’ll…” he stood and drew himself up to his full quite average, but gangly height. “I’ll turn you straight in, you got that, Grandpa Rick?”

“Don’t worry, Jesus, I don’t know how Beth raised such a whiny little…”

_“Richard,”_ cut in Ford sharply, _“Don’t we need to go?”_

“Yeah, shit, Morty, come on, we gotta hurry, ok, we gotta get outta here or…”

“I know,” said the kid. “Let’s just go.”

Stanford tried not to think about what Stanley would say when he introduced him to these two.

***

You’d really think that the noises from the lab would be more muffled, since it had been secret and all. I mean, Dipper thought, it wasn’t like you could hear that much, but Stan had been so furious, he could only deduce the worst from the faint voices coming up the stairs. Mabel looked worriedly from Dipper to the kid across the table, wondering how to lighten the mood. She cleared her throat and assumed a cheerful expression.

“So, your name’s Morty, right?”

“Huh?” Morty blinked dazedly. He’d been sitting there, staring at the vending machine, since Stan herded Ford and his grandpa into the basement lab. “Oh, uh, yeah, that’s me, Morty’s the name, don’t wear it out!” He gave a strained laugh. Mabel tried to exchange glances with Dipper, but he was hunched over the table, doing breathing exercises. She kicked him. “Dipper! You’re not being polite!”

“Ow, jeez!” He glared at her. “What was that for?”

“Don’t you think we should be trying to make Morty feel comfortable?” she hissed at him.

“I don’t know! I’m not comfortable!” he said defensively, and Mabel glared before turning back to their guest with a huff. Honestly, did she have to do everything?

***

Stan was trying hard to keep his composure. “You had to do this the day the kids get here? They’ve been waiting to see you all goddamn year, Ford! Did you even think of that before sticking your big nose in...in…” he gestured wildly at the unkempt Rick. “...whatever the hell this is?!”

Ford adjusted his glasses. “I’m sorry, Stanley, but Richard needed my help,” he said with dignity. “You know I can’t simply turn down a friend in need.”

“It’s just like you to take the high road, isn’t it?” Stan growled. “Who the hell is this guy? He looks like a goddamn mess! Where are you gonna keep him, in the lab? Where’d you even find him?”

“Ah, well, actually…”

“He broke me out of space prison, where I was being held on multiple accounts of terrorism,” said Rick blandly. Stan rounded on him, cursing.

“You think you’re funny, asshole? I got kids in this house.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Um, Stanley…” Ford cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He...he is telling the truth.”

Stan brought a fist down on the metal panel next to him. “God fucking dammit! What the fuck do you think you’re fucking doing! We’ve got the kids here and you bring your fucking _space terrorist boyfriend_ over for a goddamn sleepover?! Where are we gonna put him?! Whaddaya wanna do with his fucking kid?!”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rick move strangely. Suddenly he stiffened with a strangled noise. Stan leapt towards him as he collapsed while Ford looked on in shock. Carefully he dragged him, stiff as a board, to the middle of the room.

“What’s - ”

“Seizure,” said Stan. “Get me a pillow.” He propped Rick’s head on his knees and quickly looked at his watch. One second...two...three...ten...fifteen...Ford returned with the pillow and Stan moved to the side and tucked it under his head.

“What should we - ”

“Wait it out. We can move him after.” Twenty seconds. Thirty. Rick’s body went limp, stiffened, went limp again. Stan motioned to Ford to position himself at Rick’s other side. “Don’t try to hold him down,” he said. “Just make sure he doesn’t get too far.” Forty-five seconds. Rick’s body went slack and stayed that way.

Stan let out a breath of relief, took Rick’s wrist in his hand. His skin was surprisingly hot, but - “Ain’t dead,” he grunted. “Help me move him upstairs.”

Three faces looked up as he shoved the vending machine aside with one shoulder - Morty gasped. “Grandpa Rick?” he yelped, rushing forward.

“Outta the way,” said Stan shortly, and Morty stopped in his tracks. They deposited Rick on the couch in the front room and Stan put a hand on his forehead. He had a fever, all right. Morty peeked in. “Can I come in now? Is…” His voice cracked. “Is my grandpa okay?” Stan looked at his small, drawn face and sighed.

“Probably. You can stay with ‘im for a minute.” He pulled Ford aside. “I need you to tell me right now, is your friend an alcoholic?”

“Well…”

“Ford, either he’s epileptic or an addict. Which one makes a big difference. He drink?”

Ford nodded. Stan gave a heavy sigh. “God damn it,” he muttered.

“Okay, I gotta go see Soos. Come and get me if anything happens.”

The new little cabin a short walk from the Shack was cute and homey. The smell of cookies wafted out when Melody opened the door.

“Stan!” She beamed. “Are they here? Should I get Soos? I made cookies!”

“Melody, ya warm an old geezer’s heart.” Stan accepted her hug gratefully. “Listen, I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got a problem. Do you mind if I come in for just a minute?”

***

“All right.” Ford stood in the living room doorway, arms full. “I think I have everything.” He set the mess on the floor in front of the couch, which they'd moved into the place usually occupied by Stan's chair. Stan rose from where he’d been kneeling with a wet washcloth to Rick’s forehead and began sorting through the pile.

“Where are the kids?” Ford asked just as Morty poked his head into the room.

“Hey…” he began, then stopped. “Plastic tubing? A funnel?” He looked at Stan. “What are you gonna do to my grandpa?”

“Hopefully nothing. Definitely nothing you wanna see.”

Morty threw out his chest and tried to look grown-up. “I’ve seen a lot of fucked-up stuff!” he insisted, voice cracking.

Stan shook his head. “Sure,” he said, “but did you want to?”

Without looking up, he kept laying supplies out on the carpet. He sat back on his heels and took stock. “Tomorrow,” he said to Ford, “We’ll need to get some ice packs. Right now I need more washcloths. And take the kid with you. He doesn't need to be in here." He glared at Morty warningly.

“I still think we should take him to a hospital,” Ford said when he came back.

“In a perfect world, we would.“ Stan laid a wet cloth on Rick’s neck and wrapped one around each of his wrists. “We’ll give ‘im a minute and then check his temperature.” He turned to Ford. “You know even better than I do that your friend is a fugitive. Apparently you don’t know what that means. We take him out of Gravity Falls, he goes back into custody and probably dies.”

“It’s the anti-weird force field,” whispered Mabel to Morty as he hovered at the doorway, making him nearly jump out of his skin. Mabel put her hands over her mouth and giggled through the floppy sleeves of her sweater. Morty glared at her.

“Come back to the kitchen. Then we won’t have to be so quiet.”

Dipper sat disconsolately at the table, staring into his cocoa. Soos and Melody sat next to each other with their mugs.

Mabel hopped into her chair. "I was just telling Morty about the weird force field!" she said in a spooky voice, wiggling her fingers in front of her.

"Good idea, Mabel," said Melody with a smile, and Mabel grinned back.

"So basically, last summer..." she began. Weirdmageddon flashed through her mind. ...Maybe she should gloss over some of the less relevant details. She blinked and quickly regained her momentum. “Dipper got to do all this research with Grunkle Ford! Right, Dipper?” She elbowed him, grinning.

Dipper sighed. “Yeah,” he said glumly. Mabel glared at him.

“Anyway, they found this force field that, like, traps weirdness. That’s why so much weird stuff happens here! Like when I got kidnapped by gnomes who wanted to make me their queen, and then Dipper tried to rescue me and they turned into a giant super-gnome, and ran after us, and they only backed down when we used the leafblower on them!” Mabel leapt onto her chair, wielding an imaginary leafblower.

Morty's response left something to be desired. “Gnomes?” was all he said.

“Um...yeah. It's kind of a long story, but the important thing is there's a weird field around all of Gravity Falls and that must be what’s keeping the Space Coalition - “

“Galactic Federation.”

“ - the Galactic Federation away! What do you think, Dipper?” Mabel looked at him expectantly.

He lifted one shoulder. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Jeez, Dipper, what’s gotten into you?” Mabel exclaimed.

"I don't know!" said Dipper. "What are you so happy about?"

"Gee, I think Dipper's just upset because he won't be spending as much time with the Stans since Morty's grandpa is sick," said Soos, patting Dipper's head. Dipper nodded.

"Oh." Mabel frowned. "I'm sorry, Dipper. I know how excited you were to hang out with Grunkle Ford again."

Melody gave Morty a compassionate look. "It must be scary that your grandpa can't take care of you. I promise we'll do our best, though. I'm sure you'll be able to visit him, too. We live close." She smiled. Morty nodded, not looking much happier.

Melody checked her watch. "Okay, kiddos, we should head to the house. I'll need to get started on dinner. You can say goodbye to the grunkles and your grandpa."

In the living room, Stan and Ford gave the kids bear hugs. "I'm sorry it worked out like this," said Stan as he ruffled Mabel's hair. "We'll do what we can to see you guys."

Mabel squeezed him hard. "I sure hope so, Grunkle Stan!"

She clipped Waddle's leash to his shiny collar and they all trouped out of the shack.

***

At some point, Rick settled from unconsciousness into something like real sleep. Stan and Ford rolled out sleeping bags and slept in 20-minute shifts.

"If anything happens, it's your job to wake me up," he told Ford. "Even if it doesn't seem like much."

"Right." Ford gave him a serious nod.

Stan was half-drowsing, hunched against the witching-hour chill, when he became aware of Rick stirring. "Jesus," Rick muttered, "fuck...my head..."

"It'll be like that for a while," Stan murmured into the darkness. "I'll get you water. Don't have a seizure while I'm gone." He levered himself painfully up from the floor and limped into the kitchen, feeling old. Had staying up with Diego made his body so stiff? Maybe he just hadn't noticed.

Diego...God, it had been years.

The dark stillness of the house was like a welcome mat for melancholy. Stan allowed himself a few deep breaths as the tap whooshed into the glass.

"Here." He carefully wrapped Rick's fingers around the glass and helped him into a half-sitting position. Rick didn't want water; he wanted liquor, but he still found himself gulping the liquid down enthusiastically. "Hey, slow down..." Stan tried to say, but the next thing he knew Rick lurched violently forward and he found himself groping hurriedly for the mixing bowl he'd set out for this purpose.

"If I'm gonna hurl you could..." Rick stopped suddenly, not trusting his insides. "...you could at least give me some goddamn...some..."

"I'm not giving you any alcohol. Since you're already in withdrawal this is as good a time as any to detox you."

Rick shifted under his blanket. He muttered something - Stan just caught the words "...not my fucking doctor..."

He folded his arms. "I don't think you'd listen to me if I was a doctor. But I'm stronger than you, and you're sick as hell right now, so you're gonna do what I say."

Rick snarled a little from the safety of the blankets. What a cantankerous little...Stan automatically censored himself, a habit he'd developed for the sake of the kids. He gritted his teeth. Figured that instead of spending these few months with them he'd be caring for Ford's whiny boyfriend.

"Are you done with this for now?" he asked, reaching for the bowl Rick had thrown up in.

"Yeah," said Rick. Stan picked it up with the half-full water glass and humped back to the kitchen to rinse them. He might as well refill the glass to put by the couch. God, the next few nights were gonna be hell. But this Rick guy - he probably had no idea what he was about to live through. Stan could muster a twinge of pity for that. Besides...he smirked a little, wryly. It'd shut the little bastard up.

***

Dipper had been so preoccupied with the circumstances of their arrival that he completely forgot about Wendy. But the next day as the twins finished breakfast, there she was with her wild hair, filthy boots, and...

"Is that a new jacket?!" Mabel exclaimed, nearly bowling Dipper over as she went to examine it.

Wendy laughed. "Not exactly. This new thrift store opened this year. I got it there. They have a ton of cool vintage sweaters, too."

Mabel's eyes widened. "Really?" she breathed, clasping her hands together.

"Me and the gang were gonna go slum around there today. Wanna come?" The twins nodded.

"I'll get my purse!" said Mabel, and scampered to the back of the cabin.

Wendy leaned on the counter. "So, how ya been, Dips?"

Dipper quickly leaned on the table. "Oh...ya know," he said casually. "The usual. School and...stuff."

Wendy nodded. "Well, it's good to have you back. Come on, bring it in." She put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze.

"Back!" said Mabel as she brandished a purse smothered in sequins and ricrac. She chattered excitedly the whole way to the thrift shop, to Dipper and Wendy and to Lee and Thompson as Wendy's car filled with teenagers. At one point she gasped. "Oh my gosh! I figured it out!

"Morty sounds just like Blendin Blandin!"

Dipper blinked.

"Hey," he laughed, "he kinda does."

The shop wasn't big, but it was big enough to get lost in. The walls were lined with shelves of knickknacks and row upon row of moth-eaten clothes traipsed down the room. Mabel looked on in awe. "Where do I even start?" she asked, her eyes the size of saucers.

"Well, there's some sweaters over there," said Wendy, pointing to a rack at one end of the room. "You can try stuff on in the back."

Before she finished, Mabel was gone. By the end of an hour she had five new sweaters, a tiny porcelain unicorn, a pair of jeans with flowers embroidered on the knees, and no more pocket money. "I sure hope Grunkle Stan can have us work at the Shack again this summer," she was saying, "cause I wanna come back here every week!"

When they arrived back at the cabin, Morty sat at the kitchen table scarfing cereal. "Morty," said Mabel, craning her neck at him over the stuffed paper bag she held in both arms, "are those the clothes you had on yesterday?"

"Uh, yeah," he said. "I don't have any others..."

Mabel gasped. "You should have come to the thrift store with us! We could have gotten you all decked out!" She chewed on her lip. "Maybe Grunkle Stan has some old clothes you could wear. We should go ask him!"

"Um, I don't..." started Dipper, but Mabel cut him off.

"Oh, come on, Dipper! Melody and Soos are over there, right? And Morty needs clothes! He'll get all stinky! Come on." She grabbed Morty's arm. "We'll go over there and find you something clean to wear."

There was a sign in the window of the Shack. "Closed? Why would they close the Shack?"

"Oh, jeez, Rick must be doing really badly," said Morty fretfully.

"Don't you call your grandpa 'Grandpa?'" Mabel asked.

"Um, not usually..."

"Why?"

"I dunno...I guess I never really thought about it."

"Hmm." Mabel frowned and pushed the door open. "Hello? It's me and Morty!"

Melody appeared from the kitchen. "Kids! Whatcha doin' here?"

"Morty doesn't have any clothes! We thought maybe Grunkle Stan would have something he could borrow?"

"Hmm. You guys come wait in the kitchen. I'll ask him."

When Melody explained, Stan got wearily to his feet and turned to Ford. "If anything happens..."

"I know, Stan. Go ahead."

Stan led the kids to a closet at the back of what Mabel and Dipper now fondly called "the rug room" and tugged open the door to reveal a stash of sweaters, shirts, and jeans that reeked of mothballs. "These are all a little small for me now. Should be wearable. Just grab what you need."

"This is even better than that cool thrift shop!" Mabel squealed. She plucked out a cobalt-blue sweater with purple and mustard triangles. "Oh. My. Gosh," she gasped. Stan quickly reached over and took it back.

"That one's off limits," he said shortly. "Here." He deposited the contents of the closet into Mabel and Morty's arms and shoved them, laden with clothes, into the kitchen. "Make sure they get back to the cabin," he told Melody, and slipped upstairs with the sweater he'd taken.

He'd forgotten it was even in there. He fingered the material...it was just Diego's style. To be honest, he didn't know what he was gonna do with the thing. He had just wanted it. He tossed it on the bed and tromped back down the stairs.

***

Days went by and Rick got worse. As his condition declined, so did his patience with Stan. His lucid moments were spent lashing out, furious, sometimes briefly pitiful, demanding and then begging for alcohol. Stan looked at Ford - at his uncertain movements, his look of deep unease as he helped to restrain his friend - and a wave of relief crossed his mind at the thought that Mabel and Dipper - and Rick's scrawny shadow, too - were safely away from the shack.

He himself was used to this. He knew what to do, knew how to hold Rick, carefully, while Ford tucked a plastic tarp and a bedsheet under him, knew how much sugar and water to funnel down Rick's protesting gullet when he was too weak to swallow. It was a dirty job like everything else he was good at, but Rick would be fine. In the meantime, he just tried not to think about Diego.

And it was easy, for a while, when Rick lay sullen and shivering under his blanket. But one day he croaked for water, and when Stan propped his shoulders up and helped him hold the glass he mumbled a weak "thanks," and Stan's heart plummeted to his shoes.

The apartment was bare except for a table, two rickety chairs, and a tiny twin bed. Stan propped Diego up by the shoulders and guided the glass to his mouth.

"Thanks, baby," Diego murmured with a little smile.

"Of course." Stan stroked Diego's forehead with his thumb. It had been a bad week, he remembered: a week of wet coughing and trouble eating.

"There's some punk band coming to the Leather Daddy on Friday," he said. "I thought if you feel better we could go."

"Hmmm." Diego reached up and pulled Stan down to nuzzle his nose. "Sounds like fun. I'll try to smother this bad boy by then."

He could almost feel Diego's big calloused hand cupping his chin, his thumb brushing the tip of his ear. God, the Leather Daddy. That was where it had first gotten bad. Stan pulled himself back to reality. It wasn't time to think about that now.

Sometimes, when his fever was bad, Rick talked in his sleep. He would flail around on the tiny couch, groaning and muttering, but all Stan could ever make out was the word "unity," sometimes over and over again in the course of a night. What a weird thing to say. Stan wondered what it meant.

***

Rick pulled his head up just enough to gasp some fresh air, tears in his eyes. The past couple days had been a constant cycle of puking, sugar water, puking, DTs.

"You done?" He nodded, dizzy, and Stan carefully wiped his mouth like you would with a baby that couldn't stop slobbering. Stan left to clean the bowl and came back with a glass. "Can you drink?" he asked.

"Yeah." Stan carefully levered him up and helped him gag down the sickly stuff.

"Fuck did you learn to make this shit, anyway?" he asked, dragging a hand across his mouth. Stan shrugged.

"Stuff ya learn when you gotta take care of people. Need electrolytes when you can't eat."

Rick hunkered down into the couch cushions. "Take care of who?"

"Anybody. Nobody. Doesn't matter."

"Kind of bullshit answer is that?"

"You always get what you want?"

"Not in a long fucking time."

Stan chuckled a little. "All right. I'll answer your question, but then I gotta question for you."

Rick eyed him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"Like are you gonna take the deal or not?"

"Fine. Tell me your stupid tragic story about your dead relative that you couldn't nurse back to health. I'll just sit here. Since I can't move."

Stan sat in silence.

"Ugh, God. You're gonna just sit there and make me wait, aren't you? I'm not that curious about your stupid life, you know."

Nothing. Finally, Rick fell asleep. When he woke up again, it was to throw up. Stan steadied him as he leaned over the side of the couch, one big hand wrapping all the way around his arm.

"You done?" He nodded, miserably. Stan tipped up his chin to wipe his mouth.

As he went back to the kitchen he heard Rick mutter, "God, I wish it was over."

The club was a jam of sweaty, grinding bodies. Stan and Diego tucked themselves into a corner, hands on each other and swaying to the pounding beat of the music. The band was called The Flesh Curtains, and the lead singer was a screamer. He was all over the place, leaning desperately into the microphone, jumping up and down, sliding across the stage on his knees. The frantic energy soon had them all over each other, drunk on the music and the press of the crowd. Diego started to look tired, but when Stan looked searchingly at him he just grinned and wiggled his hips...

It all happened at once. He suddenly went pale, clutching Stan's hand in a clammy fist. Stan hurriedly led him to a back door and they spilled into an alley and Diego was doubled over, throwing up everywhere. Stan held him up, gentle and strong, hurriedly brushed his hair out of his face. When it was all over he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, took a deep, shuddering breath, and started to sob.

"Diego - baby, what is it?" Stan helped him straighten up and pulled him close. All he did for a while was cry, until he was whimpering faintly into Stan's shoulder. His head rolled weakly to one side. "I can't do this," he said.

"What do you -"

Diego shook his head fiercely. "I just -" his voice broke. "You don't know what it's like, always...weak, and -" he gave a hiccuping sob - "never knowing...when..." He stopped, trying to regain his composure. "Never knowing...when it'll - just...end," he choked out. "And..." He started sobbing again, babbling out a torrent of desperate words. "I j-just want you to be happy, I just want it to be over."

"Baby..." Stan tried to say, but he couldn't make a sound come out. He stroked Diego's hair and slumped down on the wall, sitting in the alley three feet from his boyfriend's vomit, and he couldn't say a damn thing to make it better.

"You know," he said as he set the bowl down in front of Rick, "if you really want me to, I'll tell you that story."

Rick looked at him with exhausted eyes and nodded.

"A long time ago..." he started, then stopped. He sighed. "His name was Diego. It was the 80's. Take a guess."

Rick didn't say anything. Stan let the silence hang there for a minute, thought of everything he could say, about Diego's loud sweaters, about the time he convinced Stan to get a mullet, about the butterfly softness of his lips when he kissed Stan on the cheek.

"That's all there is to it," he said with a shrug. "I couldn't help him."

The quiet pooled between them into a deep ocean of grief. Rick could feel the seaweed wrapping around him like a cocoon until Stan said, "Now I get to ask my question."

"Yeah?"

"What's 'unity?'"

Rick stiffened. "Who in the fucking hell told you about Unity," he said. His voice made it sound like a statement.

"You talk in your sleep," said Stan with a tiny hint of humor.

Rick's heart was yammering in his chest. His own fucking body'd betrayed him. How fucking perfect was that? "Oh, Unity," he said lazily, "Unity's an ex. Had a great body."

"I know a wet dream when I see one," said Stan calmly from the darkness.

"Well, you know, we didn't exactly break up on good terms if you know what I mean. Lotta unpleasant memories there. But oohhh, boy..."

"Don't kid a kidder, Sanchez."

For a minute, Rick just sulked. "She said I'm too much for her," he said finally, his voice full of bitterness.

"Word for word?"

"Close enough."

Stan scoffed. "Maybe you weren't enough for her."

"Yeah? How come you think you know anything about my relationships?"

"Been in a couple." Stan shrugged. "All I know is, when you're too much they say you're too much. When you're not enough...they tell you what they want."

"She said she wanted me to leave."

"Sure, but why?"

"Come on," Rick spat. "My bitch ex-girlfriend told me we couldn't be together because I can't change. You think you can fix that? You want me to call her new boyfriend and have her send down a representative and have a heart to heart? Cause she's an alien, by the way, and she takes over planets with her mind, so unless you know how a hivemind thinks you're not gonna tell me what she wants, Stan."

"Don't have to. Sounds like she already did. She wants you to change.

"Maybe you should."

***

It's hard to describe how good soup tastes when you've been living on water, sugar, and salt. It's hard to describe how good it feels to hold a bowl of soup in your own damn hands and sip down the broth without waiting for it to come back up. It's impossible to convey the incredible, pristine experience of taking a bite of pancake when the syrup is just starting to soak in and the cake is still fluffy.

After a couple uneventful days, Stan invited Soos, Melody, and the kids to eat breakfast at the Shack. He helped Rick carefully to the table and put a plate of pancakes in front of him. What kinda luxury, right?

"What the hell is that?" he asked when the kids appeared. Morty looked down at his burgundy sweater, with a blue-and-lime circle pattern, and started to stammer.

"Isn't it _great?"_ Exclaimed Mabel. "I picked it out for today!" Rick opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but the look Stan shot him said "one word and you lose a finger."

Ford raised his coffee mug. "I'd like to propose a toast to Richard's good health. I think I speak for all of us when I say how grateful I am that he's recovering."

"Woo-hoo!" yelled Mabel, and enthusiastically crashed her cocoa mug into Dipper's and then Morty's.

"Hear, hear!" said Soos, and followed suit until everyone had clinked mugs and they all settled down to eat.

When breakfast was over Stan sent Soos, Melody and their charges back to the cabin and sat down to have a serious talk with Ford and Rick. He got straight to the point.

"I know you don't have anywhere else to go," he told Rick. "I've been on the lam before. If you want, you can stay with us. If not...Ford, can you get him wherever he wants to go?"

Ford nodded.

"You should send Morty back," said Rick. "I don't need to drag him around. He should be with his parents."

"I can do that," said Ford. "Still, the question remains..."

"I don't know what I wanna do yet. But I can't think of anyplace worth going right now, so I guess I'm stuck here."

"All right," said Stan. "We'll see if we can find a bed for you. The kids'll wanna be back here, probably. If not, you can have the attic."

"There's always the rug room," said Ford.

Stan chuckled. "Yeah. But don't fuck with the carpet. I don't have time to deal with that again."


End file.
